


Ghost Town

by Ack_Emma



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1880, American Frontier, American Wild West, Bodie - Freeform, Bodie CA, California, Crowley is haunted by the implications of the word "fraternizing", Doppelganger, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Ghost Town, He's haunted by the whole fight really, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, I forgot to add spooky, I tried my best please don't send a posse after me, M/M, Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), No Sex, Racket’s 13 days of Halloween, Sex Work, The ghosts in this fic are metaphorical or obliquely referenced, Your spooky fix will need to be found elsewhere I'm afraid, as a context, gold mining town, mining boom, post-holy water fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ack_Emma/pseuds/Ack_Emma
Summary: After the fight over holy water Crowley meets a human that reminds him way too much of Aziraphale, and in the unlikeliest of places: a mining boomtown in the American wild west.---I wrote this forRacketghost's 13 days of Halloween!It fits the Day One prompt of "ghosts" if you squint.  😆
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	Ghost Town

In his mind’s eye, the buildings’ wooden planks unwarped and lost their weathered look, and the dirt roads once again bustled with humans who had long since left. He remembered the pounding of the stamp mills, the shouts of urgency and excitement at even the rumour of a rich strike.

With only silence and starlight accompanying him, Crowley made his way down Green Street, his memory filling in the missing walls of crumbling buildings and even entire structures that were now gone. He could see beyond the glassless window frames and ripped-out boards that left the decaying shops looking like gap-toothed skeletons, their hollow eye-sockets leering in the dark. 

It hadn’t been so long since Crowley’s booted feet traversed proper wooden sidewalks along these roads, when they were alive with energy and industry, thousands of humans looking to make a quick fortune. In what seemed like the blink of an eye it was all gone. The thousands of homes and businesses, a vast, cramped sea of plain, triangular roofs, collapsed down into these few, wasted remnants. The place was a State Historic Park, a curiosity for visitors. Though it had happened a thousand times before, it was always a lonely thing, an empty thing to revisit a place he’d once lived that was now a relic.

At least there were no horses now.

Hell had been impressed with the opportunity for sin and souls in the California Gold Rush and had kept an eye out for another similar harvest. They just happened to interrogate a frozen prospector by the name of William S. Bodey in 1859, and he’d had some interesting findings to report about an area east of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. By the time demonic bureaucracy had gotten around to doing anything with the information it was the mid-1870s. Hell woke Crowley and sent him to California to stir up trouble and to collect a large number of souls for them.

So Crowley lived in Bodie for half a dozen years, nudging events along and cultivating the greed and vice in the gold mines, gambling halls, saloons, and red light district until they reached a fever pitch. Wood and brick buildings sprang up around him, the railroad snaked its way to the town and a steady stream of humans arrived, bringing their energy and dreams, productivity and appetites with them. The frenetic growth encouraged a rough lawlessness to the town and outlaws, gun fights, barroom brawls, and robberies were as much a part of the landscape as the scrubby mountain ridge that loomed over the area. Dangerous and chaotic, the American wild west. 

For a demon who reveled in mayhem it was a lot of fun. 

Crowley had still been smarting and furious when he’d been sent to work this assignment. He ached, his break from Aziraphale in St. James over the holy water was an unhealed wound. In the centuries since they’d started The Arrangement their meetings had become increasingly friendly, work matters a progressively flimsier excuse to share company. All those theatre dates and lunches, afternoons in the park and wine-soaked nights in the bookshop. The meandering conversations they’d had, and the silences that were comfortable. It was more than tawdry fraternizing, or so Crowley had thought. He could certainly survive long years without seeing the angel, but he was struggling to bear knowing that the next time they did meet he wouldn’t get that radiant smile of welcome, an invitation to dine together and talk. Would he ever, again?

Crowley could mostly lose himself in the haze of sin and indulgence that was thick in boomtowns during good times, the whiskey and wildness that marked Bodie at its peak. Walking through town in the morning, he grinned whenever miners asked “have we a man for breakfast?” and were answered in the affirmative. Whoever was killed the night before was almost always a fresh soul bound for Hell. The kind of men who flooded Bodie to get drunk and brawl and chase quick riches often weren’t the sort looking for a calm existence or to die of old age. There were worse ways to go than in a gunfight or after a wild, rollicking good time. 

Those that did just maybe wouldn’t like what came after.

At the intersection with Main Street, Crowley stopped and looked up at the former United States Land Office. Bodie hadn’t been a land of prosperity for everybody. There had been plenty of humans here, suffering the hardship and thin air, struggling to simply survive. Choices and good chances had been fewer for those who weren’t a white man. 

Closing his eyes, Crowley immersed his senses in the desolate landscape of sagebrush and scouring wind. He hadn’t come here as a tourist to wander a museum, he’d returned to find something.

* * *

One day in 1880 Crowley was leaving the jail at the bottom of Bonanza Street, having insinuated a few interesting observations into the mind of the constable who ran it, when almost-ethereally golden curls caught his attention. Once caught, all the other noise and movement around him faded away. Yellow bled into all the white of Crowley’s sclera as he took in the woman’s serious gray eyes, delicately up-turned nose, pursed pink lips. It wasn’t the angel, of course, but the soft hang under her chin as she looked up from her clasped hands and the perfect curve of her arse as she walked away so resembled Aziraphale that all of Crowley’s higher brain functions were compromised. Legs moving of their own volition, Crowley slithered behind the straight-backed woman all the way up Maiden’s Lane and into the brothel where she was a boarder.

Mr. Anthony J. Crowley was a known figure in Bodie, with his black frock coats and even darker eyeglasses. He was frequently present when significant events occurred, a thin, mysterious shard standing among people of influence, but no one could quite detail just what his business dealings actually were. The human he was supposed to be was obviously wealthy, though, and upon entering the brothel its madam was eager to present the woman to him and offer Crowley all the hospitality of their establishment.

In the red-light district it was a boarder’s job, of course, to brighten pleasingly at him and offer romantic attentions. Crowley didn’t care. Even through the initial small talk, every time she looked at him and smiled he felt a pang in his chest. The pain of it was less than the want tethering him to her, though, and nothing was more urgent than that close proximity. When Crowley looked at her that  _ need _ he felt, clawing insistently for his attention, _that_ was real. 

Crowley paid for Evelyn’s company that night and for the brothel’s best room. And the night after. And eventually, for every night for the next six months.

Their evenings together were quiet and routine. The brothel offered piano playing and singing to entertain the guests but Crowley preferred the privacy of his suite. He always ordered a large dinner, which he mostly watched Evelyn eat with gusto. He encouraged her to drink freely of the wine, remembered the foods she exclaimed over, savoured her hums of pleasure whenever there was cake.

All the nearby trees had long since been cut down so fuel was dear, but Crowley kept the fire in the woodstove roaring so Evelyn would stay warm as he undressed her and bathed her. Leaning over the side of the tub, Crowley was quiet and intent, gently brushing a face cloth over her full cheeks, watching soap bubbles slide down the curve of her sturdy forearms, carefully cleaning each of her small, blunt fingers. She was ticklish around the knees, a detail Crowley felt strangely privileged to know. The heat of the water made Evelyn pink all over, adding to the slight flush brought by Crowley’s caressing, focused attentions. But she met his eyes through all his careful ministrations and seemed to be studying him in turn. Crouched on the floor, the sharp lines and hard corners of him were even more apparent with his coat stripped off and shirtsleeves rolled up to stay dry. Evelyn’s eyes followed slender hands that glided through the water, gentle and precise. She noted the low, sinuous timbre of his voice when he asked for permission to wash the next part of her.

Crowley liked to take his time brushing out Evelyn’s long hair. It was soft and fine in his hands, had a persistent curl that was just a bit unruly, and was bright in even the dimmest light.

Every night Crowley dressed Evelyn in a white nightgown with pretty frills, and was measured and watchful as he led her to the bed. 

The first time she had tried to disrobe him and he hastily stilled her hands. 

Men came to the brothel for companionship of all kinds, so Evelyn waited patiently for Crowley to tell her what he wanted. He was swaying a bit on his feet but staring resolutely at their hands. She let him look up first, then did so too. As she raised her eyes he saw curiosity there, but no judgment.

“Ngh,” Crowley croaked awkwardly. “Nuh.” A long pause. Then, “you, uh, you remind me of someone I know,” he finally explained.

Evelyn’s expression softened and she was pliant and yielding as Crowley tentatively drew her into his arms. 

He didn’t blame the sporting women with hearts that were hard and who were all business; life on the rough frontier dealt out much heartache and you needed self-interest if you were to survive. Crowley stretched out his demonic senses to study Evelyn’s desires. Her motives and secret wishes that night were for herself but they were for innocuous things: kindness, comfort, escape from the despair this life brought her. She was warm and at ease from their time together and wanted to continue to be warm and at ease. She wanted to please Crowley in whatever way he wanted so he would want to be with her again. 

Satisfied that the risk of discorporation was as low as it ever got in Bodie, Crowley relaxed his guard just a little, lying in bed with Evelyn. As he cradled her and dozed lightly through the night she embraced him back.

* * *

The ornately-wallpapered suite, with delicate lace curtains to belie the bitterly cold night outside and rich, mahogany furniture to lounge on, had a coziness that gave Crowley a temporary refuge. It was a small reprieve from the stinging hurt, the anger and rejection he was carrying about. He’d tried escaping into sleep and throwing himself into work but this was so much better. There was always a sunny smile, a happy greeting for him when he was here that reached right into the center of him. Someone who really listened, who would have a laugh with him. The storm in him howled a little less loudly, a little less forcefully when he was with Evelyn.

Crowley knew she was a human, knew that whatever the physical resemblance it was illogical to project the fondness he had for Aziraphale onto her, but again and again he found himself sauntering down Bonanza Street, stepping into the now-familiar building. His days were his usual demonic work, and if his mischief and temptations happened to land various fine gifts into his hands that was just the luck of the devil.

“For me?” Evelyn asked with wide, hopeful eyes as Crowley placed a rather flash necklace in her hands one day. “Really?” 

“It’s stolen,” Crowley smirked. 

“Oh good lord,” Evelyn disapproved, even as she turned around to let Crowley put the jewels on her.

She was fun to tease, though Crowley was less in control of things than he’d like to admit. Later that same week he manifested her a fine dress of cream and light blue, detailed with gold embroidery, and presented it to her grandly. She looked so tickled and delighted, every laugh line creased into a full-faced smile he recognized all too well, that Crowley practically slunk off in embarrassment.

“Oh, thank you,” Evelyn gushed at his retreating figure.

He was inexplicably tongue tied when she put it on, though covered it up with a well-timed rant or two.

“A church!” he slurred, having taken to thoroughly appreciating the newly-arrived inventory in the brothel’s wine selection. “The local ladies are fundraising to build one! Do they even know what mining camp we’re in?”

“I take it you won’t be a regular at Sunday mass?” Evelyn laughed.

“Not a big church fan, me.”

Evelyn laughed some more, even if she didn’t understand why Crowley grimaced and curved his legs around to tuck his feet safely under him. 

“Bodie’s becoming a proper town,” she observed. “Look at all the families living here now. That changes things. Families need more than saloons and opium dens. Remember when the schoolhouse burned down last year and they had to convert the Bon Ton Lodging House into a new one, there were so many students enrolled? Were you against that, too?”

“That’s different,” Crowley grumbled. “School’s for kids. You can’t complain about kids.” There was also a juvenile delinquent arsonist involved in that affair, so the whole incident had sounded quite good when Crowley wrote it up in his memo to head office.

Crowley only worked until late afternoon anymore. By now the humans in Bodie were wild and wicked enough on their own, so he really didn’t need to try so hard. His evenings and nights were spent burrowed with Evelyn in that brothel bedroom, basking in all the warmth of that arrangement.

Some nights Evelyn read the newspaper to him, talked about the price of silver and gold, or they chatted about the local happenings. Evelyn had some sensible observations about the mining business and the local operations in particular, having lived in mining towns for years and having gleaned a good deal of information from the brothel’s other clientele before Crowley monopolized her time. 

Bit by bit Crowley got to learn about Evelyn’s past. She and her husband had come from the east a dozen years ago, seeking their fortune. They moved between Aurora, Gold Hill, and Virginia City, chasing mining booms. Despite the rich strikes in the area, it was a hardscrabble existence, the climate cold and harsh, and working conditions abysmal. There were windfalls, here and there, but they were hard to hang onto when little luxuries or a carefree night made the grinding difficulty of life a bit more bearable. The rest of the time, between her husband’s wages as a labourer and the meagre pay when she could find work as a clerk they had gotten by, but just.

After a decade the hardship, back-breaking work, and heavy drink took its toll on Evelyn’s husband and he died. In her grief and financial desperation she’d taken up with a fast-living miner who brought her to Bodie with him then promptly abandoned her. 

Respectable employment options didn’t pay nearly enough for a woman to live on her own in a boomtown economy. Shamed by the desertion, having no money to leave and not knowing a soul where she was, Evelyn’s best chance at survival had been to join the sisterhood. Blonde, fair-skinned, and new to the profession, she’d been able to find employ in a nicer brothel, though was too old to be desired as a high-end parlour girl. 

“I earned enough in my first week here to travel home to my family. But I couldn't go anymore, they wouldn't take me back, not after what I’d done.” She said it with such quiet acceptance, but sadness, too.

A fallen woman now, Evelyn was stuck in this life. Decent folk wouldn’t forgive what she’d become. She was careful with her earnings, buying the finery she was expected to wear at the brothel but not spending on much else. Time was not on her side and she knew it. The flesh trade was punishing work of a different sort and her prospects would rapidly dim in the coming years. 

“What would you want out of life?” Crowley asked her idly, months into their acquaintance. He was sprawled on the settee, drowsy and loose-limbed from eating more than usual at dinner that night. Evelyn faced him in a nearby armchair. “If your opportunities weren’t limited?”

Her flustered little gasp at the question was feigned, Crowley was sure. A slight lift of her shoulder, she turned her face away, then back. She quickly glanced downward and blinked before raising her eyes back to Crowley. “I’d like to get married again,” she answered, with the barest hint of a smile, before looking away once more.

From the start Crowley demonically sensed Evelyn’s growing hope, her desire for him to love her, to give her a happier and more secure life than she had now. She was going to be disappointed. What she wanted was not his to give, not to her, not to anybody. No one on Hell’s payroll had that kind of freedom. And though she dampened down the pain left from the fight with Aziraphale, this salve was incomplete and temporary at best. Crowley knew he needed to win the angel back. Whatever liberties he could take with a human stand in, in the end the depth of his 6000-year friendship with a unique, immortal being was not something that could be simulated or replaced.

Still, he regretted not spotting Evelyn sooner, for not having more time. Half a year after they met Crowley was called to report to Hastur and Ligur among the graves of Boot Hill. He thought he might only need to recount his deeds so far but Bodie had proved to be a runaway success. Crowley had satisfied Hell’s quota of souls for this assignment and he was being sent elsewhere on another.

* * *

Crowley bathed Evelyn one last time, fingers lingering and thoughtful. He daringly sat her in his lap for dinner, hand-feeding her as he tried to memorize the press of her against him, the way her lips moved when she opened her mouth or chewed.

Evelyn’s temperament was mostly angel and not much bastard but she wasn’t naive. She’d lived long enough to understand that life was full of hard choices and required a certain practicality, hopeful dreams or no.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Crowley knew what she wanted, and even though he’d never made her any promises he knew that what she was letting show was only a sliver of her great disappointment.

“Tomorrow.”

“For long?”

“Probably,” Crowley hedged. He really didn’t know.

They sat in silence for a while, her weight warming his legs and his arm comfortably around her round waist.

“Evelyn. You want to lead a different kind of life, don’t you?”

Gray eyes looked up. Sad, but with an openness and trust that Crowley had earned. 

“You know I do,” she said.

Crowley had been around since the Garden of Eden, had seen many humans succumb to terrible fates. For his own sanity he generally kept his distance. It aggravated him, though, how often it seemed like humans couldn’t exercise much of their free will, how often the most vulnerable among them didn’t have a lot of choice.

“I could do a few things for you tomorrow, before I leave. Tell me what you think of this.” And Crowley laid out the new life he could give her.

* * *

In the pitch black they were cuddled up one last time in bed, neither given to sleep just yet. 

The night felt momentous, somehow, the end of a comfort Crowley had rarely enjoyed.

He pulled back to look at her. She didn’t have demonic abilities that allowed her to see in the dark but she felt his movement and tilted her head to face where she thought he’d be.

Evelyn. His not-Aziraphale. A human who had somehow tapped into the deep well of tenderness Crowley wanted to show the angel. A human who somehow even deserved a bit of it, who’d won a little of his affection for her own.

With some apprehension, Crowley took a chance. “I’d like to kiss you.”

A small intake of breath and then Evelyn came forward, lips parted and so, so soft. The moment they joined Crowley sighed and closed his eyes. He savoured the gentleness of her touch for a long moment before capitulating to repressed desire. 

Crowley leaned in, licking at her mouth greedily and drank in the pleasure of this closeness, the sweetness of her. Evelyn’s hands cupped his face and her tongue slid against his, languid and stroking. Crowley felt the longing he always carried ease just a little and he pressed their mouths together even harder.

Evelyn tangled her legs with his, surrounding his lean body with her plushness. Offering more, wanting him. Their kiss grew heated and messy, and when they both started to pant she slid her hands to his hips and dragged him fully against her.

“Ngk,” Crowley pulled back in response, gasping and overwhelmed. He buried his face into her neck, eyes squeezed shut against the silky hair, and hugged her tightly. 

Neither of them could give the other everything they wanted, but they’d given what they could, taken care of each other as much as they were able. They were both better off for it. Without being asked Evelyn guessed what Crowley needed and cradled him. They fell asleep one last time clasped like this, a complete circuit of comfort and support.

* * *

In the cold, early sunlight Evelyn was jittery as Crowley helped her into the plain, respectable dress he’d bought her. When she opened her mouth, though, she surprised him.

“Will you get to see her again?”

Angels and demons were immortal, at Armageddon or sometime sooner their paths would most assuredly cross. 

“Yes.” 

Evelyn’s face cleared a bit and she ventured tentatively, “and do you have hope?”

She’d steadied Crowley over these months, let him consider things with a clearer head and without the desperation of a starving thing. His need for affection had been fed, just a little, and he could see now that despite the belittling of their friendship, Aziraphale needed comfort and affection too, and as much steadiness as a demon of Hell could offer.

Crowley gave her a small smile in return.

“I think so.”

* * *

Crowley’s last demonic act in Bodie was to install his own human operative in the thriving hub of commerce. Blackmail, espionage, subversion of the existing social order: Hell would be impressed if he ever chose to detail this bit of work to them.

It had been as easy as walking into one of the bigger mining companies and informing the owners that the senior clerk none of them had asked for was ready to start. Crowley had picked a moment when one of the partners’ wives happened to be present, so none of the outwardly-respectable men wanted to explain how they knew that “Miss Maybelle” was not really Mr. Crowley’s newly arrived, spinster cousin. Half of them owed Crowley gambling debts, to boot. Their protests were muted when Crowley outlined his expectation that they pay his cousin what they would a man for the same job.

“Maybelle” had been instructed to be ready should Crowley’s business dealings in Bodie require her to act as his agent, but otherwise she was free to live her life. Crowley had arranged for the outstanding gambling debts to be paid into an account that would regularly distribute a stipend to her. It wouldn't be lavish living but between her two sources of income and the money she’d already saved she could get by. 

Clasping her hands warmly Crowley wished his cousin good luck and left Bodie. Time passed and no need arose for Hell to send him back. After a year he miracled extra money into the bank account and sent word that his business in the region was done. He never saw Evelyn again.

* * *

A few broken shards of crockery and coloured glass crunched under Crowley’s boots. He kicked away a square-headed nail that skittered erratically over the bumpy ground.

Ghost town. Emptied, depleted. The people, the lives they’d lived here, their hopes and happiness, dissipated as ruthlessly as smoke lashed by the unforgiving wind. Crowley let his arms rest at his sides. Whatever treasures there were here before, it was all gone now. The only gold left in sight was the ring he was wearing.

A pale figure drifted up behind him, hovering for a moment before reaching out. A manicured left hand, with a gold ring of its own, interlaced its fingers with his.

“Some good memories for you here, I hope,” Aziraphale hugged him.

Crowley wasn’t sure what to say. He’d told Aziraphale about his friend Evelyn. The angel had been compassionate and glad, so glad that for a short time during their fight that Crowley hadn’t been alone. He also understood the implicit request in that information, and set himself to doing research.

In the end, Crowley asked, “what did you find of her?”

With a glint of amusement in his eye, Aziraphale stood back and reported, “a Miss Maybelle Crowley remained employed at the mining company until it closed in 1883. If the pay records are anything to go by, she worked her way into a position of some responsibility before the place shuttered.”

Aziraphale continued. “While at work she met an engineer by the name of Elbert Blake. They fell in love and married in 1882. After the company closed they moved to Carson City and even had a child. They have a few descendents living in San Francisco.”

A hint of a smile on Crowley’s face threatened to interrupt Aziraphale’s report. Nevertheless, he soldiered on.

“I couldn’t find a death record for Evelyn or Elbert. They didn’t come back here, they’re not buried in the local cemetery. If they eventually left Carson City and settled somewhere else there was no mention of it.”

Aziraphale fluttered his fingers a bit anxiously and asked, “do you need to know if she’s Upstairs or Below? We’re persona non grata with our previous employers but perhaps in the future-” 

Crowley held up a hand to interrupt him and shook his head. It sounded like a happy life, a human life. As good as any of them could hope. Crowley moved to hold Aziraphale’s hand and tug him along through the town. They walked in silence for a short while until Crowley’s mind came back to the present.

“You would have liked her, angel. You were the same in a lot of ways. She was clever and kind. Enjoyed herself at the dinner table. Looked good in frills.”

The two turned down King Street on their way to see if there was anything left of Angels’ Roost, the brothel district. Even after all this time, Crowley’s legs seemed to remember the way.

“Liked to read, even if it was just the newspaper. Good company.”

Crowley stopped and turned to look Aziraphale in the eye.

“Way less bashful than you are when I was giving her a bath, though.”

Aziraphale huffed with embarrassment. “Really now, my dear.”

Swaying closer, Crowley tried to cup Aziraphale’s arse from inside his back trouser pocket and had his hand swatted away. Crowley gave his angel an affectionate look and they continued on down the windswept road, watched only by the stars and any ghosts who remained to haunt what was left of Bodie.

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever met a stranger that so resembled another person in your life (who you have unresolved issues around, who you can't be with) that your heart and brain can't help but attach all those feelings and baggage to the new person? It's quite the mind-contorting trip and dredges up all sorts of vulnerability and complicated emotions that want to be looked at and dealt with, even though you're with this new stranger and not the emotionally-significant person they remind you of. 
> 
> My brain decided to put Crowley through that, because if it could happen to my 21-year-old past self then his 6000-year-old ass was probably similarly-ambushed at some point, too. 🤔
> 
> The pictures of Bodie, as it stands today, really are something. Have a look at [some of the buildings still standing ](https://www.bodie.com/history/structures/swazey-hotel/)to add to the mood. 👻


End file.
